


tell me you'll keep me

by BeeLove



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hallucinations, M/M, Nosebleed, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-06
Updated: 2016-08-06
Packaged: 2018-07-29 16:14:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7691182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeeLove/pseuds/BeeLove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Percy is losing his grip and doesn't deserve the help he so desperately needs, and Vax isn't ready to give up yet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	tell me you'll keep me

**Author's Note:**

> This is partially inspired by [grace of gravity, weight of stone](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7537486) (which is a particularly fantastic story, and deserves buckets of praise). Or rather, it was after reading that story, I was able to sit up and say _I know exactly what I need to write._ So thank you! Very much! You should read it, if you haven't yet.
> 
> The title comes from the song [Clearest Blue, by CHVRCHES](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BZyzX4c1vIs). They supplied the soundtrack for the story -- thanks guys! Couldn't have done it without you.
> 
> **Just a warning,** this story does feature somewhat disturbing hallucinations involving spiders and mild body horror. It's not super graphic (I don't think), but there are a few references to that sort of imagery. There's also a bit of blood, but it's not violent. Heed the tags, and take care of yourselves.  <3

Your nose starts bleeding; red slicks over your upper lip and creeps between your teeth. The taste is not unfamiliar, and you sigh through your mouth. Cassandra tries to tell you that this is your third nosebleed this week, and it's only Wednesday. Brother, that is concerning – brother, aren't you concerned? She stares mournfully at you from her perch in the corner of the bathroom, and you ignore her. Her head nearly touches the water stained ceiling, and her little hands brace against the walls for support. She isn't wrong – there's a garden of splotchy bloodstains of varying ages growing on the sleeves of your gray, hooded sweatshirt.

Brother, that is concerning.

Brother, aren't you concerned?

Blinking slowly, you uncrumple yourself from your huddle on the floor. When you turn your head to try and find her, she is gone. That's all right. She'll come back eventually. Your hand is impressively steady as you collect a few drops of blood on your index finger and draw a slightly crooked frowning face. Two dots. One upside down closed parenthesis. It takes a little more blood than your had expected to complete the picture and, when you glance over your shoulder to check her corner (she doesn't like showing up in mirrors), Cassandra is still absent.

As you stare at your ill fed reflection, you pull your sleeve down to cover your hand, and press your cloth covered wrist against your nose. The soft material soaks up the rust and yet another flower blooms on your sleeve. Fumbling one-handed with your phone, you retreat to your corner with your back pressed against the wall. You have to squint at the screen as your punch in your passcode and send off a quick text message.

_'Can we talk please?'_

The cabinet under the sink is open, and you try to ignore the bottle of bleach staring at you. Cassandra hasn't come back yet (this isn't unusual, you remind yourself, she disappears for days at a time) and your fingers are starting to twitch. You carefully fold your legs to your chest and rest your chin on your knees. He won't answer you – you know this. He never answers you. And why should he, you laugh around the iron choking your throat.

You have no right to talk to him. Absolutely none. You put his sister in the hospital. He put bruises on your face. It's okay. You deserved it. But you're losing track of time, and that bottle of bleach is still staring at you, and you can't stop laughing. You want to tell him you're so sorry. You're so fucking sorry for what you did. But Cassandra is dead, so maybe that makes you two even. You're laughing so hard, your lungs push against your ribs with a rattle, but Cassandra is dead and your friends hate you and you deserve it.

Instead you type, _'I want to drink bleach.'_ and throw your phone into the hall. You've left little smudges of red on the screen and the sleeve of your sweatshirt is sodden with blood and tears (when did you start crying?). You curl your other arm over your face as you press your head into the wall as hard as you can. You're still laughing.

You are not well.

You fall asleep, or you pass out, or you stare a water spot on the wall without blinking. Your nose doesn't stop trickling blood; it has smeared across one cheek and dried tacky on your chin. Spiders creep out of your hands. They pick their way across your fingernails; their spindly legs tick delicately over your knuckles. There are bullet holes shot through the centers of your palms. The spiders avoid the slowly spreading blood. Lucky little arachnids. 

Someone is shaking your shoulder hard; you think it might be Cassandra, but she hasn't touched you since she died two weeks ago. She just watches you from the corner of whatever room you're haunting. Watches you and reminds you to eat something. Please, brother, why don't you eat?

But you're not in the business of listening to dead things. The spiders nimbly circle your wrist; you are mesmerized by how they traverse the road map of your veins. Someone is touching your face. You can feel their fingers on your cheeks, and you try to look at the spiders spilling out of the gaping holes in your palms, but you can't move your head. You wish it was Cassandra, but you know it isn't.

It's Vax.

He's cradling your face in his hands – your blood is on his fingers, you realize with a sinking, cold feeling that must be shame; he shouldn't have to touch you when you're like this – and his eyes are frantically searching for something. He won't find it. You gasp, blinking suddenly, as you push against his shoulders. Your bare feet slip on the tile. The spiders are gone. Your hands are whole. There's blood on your sweatshirt, and Vax is here to kill you.

You shouldn't fight back, because you deserve this – you know that you do. It's your fault, you were the one driving that night, and you were the one who killed Vex (they brought her back after only a few minutes, but she still _died_ ), and you know you should let Vax work it out on your already ruined body. You should let him hit you. Strangle you. Whatever it takes to make it right.

But you can't help yourself.

You shove him, flailing against his grip, and smack the back of your head against the wall. He tries to hold you still as your eyes prickle with humiliating heat. And you hate yourself for it, as he makes quiet hushing noises. The tears trickle down your cheeks, clearing little tracks in the dried blood, and you suck in a pained breath. You didn't cry the first time he hit you, in the 2am hallway of the hospital. Your left eye was swollen shut, your ribs were bruised, and your wrist was fractured. But you didn't cry when he punched you then, and you refuse to cry now.

Only he doesn't hit you.

He smooths back your hair with a little sigh. When he's convinced you're done struggling, he slowly reaches out with one hand and rubs his thumb over your cheekbone. You stare at him, chest heaving with panic, and he waits.

“I'm sorry,” you croak, and you realize you haven't used your voice in weeks for anything besides mumbling to yourself.

“Oh Percival,” he sighs again; his breath ghosts across your face.

Clearing your throat, you try again. “Would you like to hit me?” He closes his eyes, like he's annoyed, and you start talking faster. It hurts, but you can't stop. “You can. I – I won't try to stop you or fight back. Truly, Vax, you can. I know I deserve it. I deserve far worse than just a punch. You can do whatever you want to me. I don't care. You can kill me – really, whatever it takes.” He looks at you like you're breaking his heart.

“Whatever I want,” Vax repeats, tucking a loose chunk of hair behind your ear. You nod, desperate for something you can't fully describe. Even if you don't survive this, you feel like that will be enough. Please let it be enough. “Okay,” he rocks back to a crouch and gracefully unfolds himself, so he's standing tall in your bathroom. Smiling a brittle smile, he grabs both your hands and pulls you to your feet. You're taller than he is, and you hunch your shoulders to hide it. “I want to get this blood off your face,” his voice falters, as does his smile, even as he tries to keep them both steady. “And then I think you should probably take a shower.”

“O-okay.” You stare at your joined hands, eyes wide, (how can he stand to touch you so kindly you do not deserve his kindness you don't you don't you don't) and he hastily lets go to turn and face the sink. You steel yourself as he stares at the artwork you've left on the mirror. Biting his lip, he shakes his head once and starts scrubbing at the red caking his fingers. 

He glances up to meet your gaze in the mirror. “I'm sorry,” you mumble, even though you're not sure why you're apologizing. Because you killed his sister. Because you're a freak who draws frowny faces in your own blood. Because he's in your apartment when he probably doesn't want to be there. Because your blood is on his hands, and it's a paltry sum compared to what you owe.

“Don't apologize,” he corrects quickly, digging through the cabinet on the wall. Glancing down, he sees the bleach peaking out from under the sink. Narrowing his eyes, he kicks the little door closed and the offensive bottle disappears. Returning to his search, he finds a clean, albeit faded, washcloth and runs it under the warm water. “Now get over here,” he latches onto your wrist and tugs you over, and you stumble as you stand in front of the sink with your back to the mirror. “Let's get you clean.”

His touch is soft as he pulls your glasses off your face and places them gently on the counter. With an unsure smile, he starts washing your face, and you try not to flinch while he scrubs in gentle circles to clear the flakes of blood from your skin. He keeps one hand one your chin, tilting your head this way and that as he works. You can't help but glance over his shoulder, checking the room for any sign of Cassandra – you don't know why; something tells you she won't appear when there's someone else with you. And then you realize this is the first time you've had another human in your apartment in two weeks. And of course, it has to be Vax.

“Do you want to die, Percival?” His voice is deceptively calm as he rinses the washcloth and resumes wiping your face. He nudges your head back so he can look under your chin. “It's just, well. You said I could kill you. If I wanted.” The words are stilted, as if he's having trouble stringing them together. It's a rare sight – while not quite as skilled a negotiator as his sister, Vax's silver tongue is truly legendary. Only now, he's stuttering in your bathroom, like he isn't sure how to properly fit his mouth around his sentences.

It doesn't make sense.

None of this makes sense.

You tilt your head slowly to one side, and he drops his hands from your face. You can feel your eyes slowly widen as you put it all together. Of course. Absolutely of course. This isn't real. You're still huddled on the floor, staring at nothing. You're still seeing spiders. You're still imaging your dead sister floating in the corner. You're still hallucinating holes gouged in your palms. This isn't real. It's comforting, you think, as your eyes blink shut against yet another mockery conjured by your sleep starved mind. Vax would never come to save you, because you don't deserve to be saved.

But you can pretend.

So you pretend.

With a soft, tired smile, you shrug one shoulder. “I don't know that I want to die. I don't think so,” you ponder aloud, watching in mild fascination as he neatly folds the wet washcloth on the rim of the sink and hands you your glasses. You put them on easily, and cross yours arms over your chest protectively. “But I think that I would deserve to. I am not a good person, Vax.”

“You told me you wanted to drink bleach.” He reminds you blandly, holding up your blood smudged phone. Instinctively, you reach for it and, without looking away from your face, he gently places it in your palm. “That is troubling, Percival. And definitely not something you deserve.”

“That's kind of you to say,” you huff in amusement as you try to wipe your mobile clean on your sweatshirt. He makes a noise like he wants to stop you, and you show off your rust soaked sleeves. “Nosebleeds,” you explain, shrugging again, “not like a little more will hurt.” It's difficult to clean off the dried blood, and your scrubbing turns a little frenzied. Why won't it just come off? This is supposed to be your delusion – can't you maintain even a modicum of control? Cautious, he reaches out to cover your frantic hands with his. “It won't come off,” you explain with a choked laugh.

“Percival. You don't deserve to die.” You can't look at him. His voice is steady, but his fingers are trembling on your skin. This is harder than you thought it would be, even if he isn't real. Why can't he just punch you and leave you to the spiders?

“I killed your sister, Vax'ildan,” you mumble, grimacing a bitter smile. “I deserve to die.” Your fingers are trembling too.

“No, you don't.” He tilts his head, trying to catch your gaze, but you maintain your downward stare. “Vex'ahlia is alive. She was hurt – very badly, no one is disputing that – and it took a very long time, but she is all right now.” He tugs on your hands, takes your phone and places it on the counter, before reclaiming his hold on you. “I haven't been a very good friend to you, have I?”

“No one expects you to be – what I did was unforgivable. I can hardly stand to be in my own skin for it!” Your voice cracks, and tears spill over your cheeks. “You shouldn't be here,” you whisper, mostly to yourself. “It's my fault, it's my fault, it's my fault, it's my –”

“So you crashed the car on purpose, then?” Vax interrupts in a calm voice, tightening his grip on your hands. His fingers aren't trembling any more. “You looked over at my sister – my beautiful, clever sister – and decided that this was your chance? You'd been planning this of a while, right? You decided that she should die, and you would be the one to kill her, then? She was – what, in the middle of telling a joke? Complaining about something I had done that week? Recommending yet another ridiculous food adventure? And you decided, in that moment, to wreck your car and kill her? You did it all on purpose?”

You shake your head, your whole body spasming, as your chest heaves against the air your lungs can't quite grasp. “No – I didn't mean to – I would _never_ do that – please, believe me,” you're begging through your breathless sobbing. You don't even know what you're saying anymore. “Vax, please, it was an accident. It was an accident and _I'm sorry_ ,” it hurts to even talk, but you can't stop. You can't stop, and you can't look at him. “I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.” He cradles the back of your neck, and brings your head down so your face is pressed against his shoulder. “Make it stop, please.” With a hum, he loops his other arm around your waist and pulls you against him.

“Oh, Percival,” he sighs again. “I believe you. I know it was an accident. No one's blaming you, darling.” He rubs up and down your back, in great, soothing strokes, and you fist your hands in his shirt. Your mind is so unbearably cruel; you will never be able to face him after manufacturing his forgiveness. How can you take his honest wrath, when you've already imagined his false acceptance? You sob harder, and he makes quiet, hushing noises in the back of his throat.

“You'll be all right. It's going to be all right.” You don't believe him, but he is so kind to lie. “I wish you had reached out to me sooner, buddy. I understand why you didn't,” Vax comments, once you've calmed down enough to suck some air into your lungs. His voice is deceptively mild, but you can sense the severity underneath. “But I wish you had. I'm sorry you've been dealing with this alone.”

“I didn't want to burden you.” The admission is harder to make than you would have expected. Why is it so easy to admit you want to die, yet so impossible to admit your helplessness? “You had Vex to look after, and I thought I'd be the last person you'd want to hear from. And,” you pull back to wipe your nose on your sleeve, “maybe I thought I could handle it on my own. I thought I was doing okay.”

He loosens his hold on you, giving you the space to take a small step back. “Percy,” he holds your name in his mouth carefully, “you drew on the mirror in what I can only assume is your own blood. And you texted me that you wanted to drink bleach.” There's a moment where you think he expects you to say something, but you adjust your glasses awkwardly and cast your eyes to the floor instead. 

“I'm not blaming or judging you. I just think... Maybe things are a little bit worse than you thought. Maybe you need a little extra help.” He cups your cheek and you squeeze your eyes shut. “And that's okay. You're not alone in this. Not anymore.” This is not a conversation you want to have – even if it's taking place entirely in your head, with a hallucination of your ex-friend who wants to kill you.

A pause, and he reaches out to almost touch the stains on your sweatshirt. He catches himself, fingers hovering in the air, and he laughs, exasperated and a little bitter. “We don't have to talk about it now. Just... consider it, for me.” You nod, once, and he lets go of you completely. “Now, why don't I make us something to eat? And I think you should take that shower now. Might make you feel better, hm?” Again, you nod, fumbling with your sleeves. “Will you be all right in here, by yourself?”

It's sweet – and deviously, excruciatingly cruel – of him to ask. What does it matter if you're all right? You're alone right now, probably still crumpled on the floor, staring at nothing. But, you force yourself to pretend that his concern is real. You smile, though it's small and out of practice, and lift your chin to look at him. His eyebrows are raised, and he's projecting calm (as if it's perfectly normal to ask someone if you can leave them unchaperoned in their own bathroom), but his fingers twitch slightly against his thigh.

“Yes, Vax. I'll be all right.” And you will be. Cassandra and the spiders are gone; your hands are fully formed. You'll be all right for the time being. There's some vicious, masochistic part of yourself that wants to hold on to this for as long as possible. Ride out the high, until you jerk yourself into consciousness on the dingy, bathroom floor. But for now, Vax awards you with a hopeful smile and ducks out into the hallway. He leaves the door open just a crack, and you decide to keep it that way.

\- - -

Some twenty minutes later, you're surprised to find him in the kitchen, staring down at a saucepan on your stove. You half expected him to disappear – fade in the ether of your own delusions, like Cassandra. But, here he is, standing barefoot and cooking for you. He's distracted – poking at something with a spoon – and doesn't notice your approach until you're peeking over his shoulder.

“Percival,” he drawls, still poking. So maybe he did notice you. “All you had was a few cans of soup, so I hope you don't mind minestrone.” You shake your head; you honestly don't remember the last time you actively prepared food for yourself, so you're not going to complain. “Good. Go get some bowls.”

You manage to find two reasonably clean bowls, and he fills them neatly, with no drips or spills. He takes a spoon from you and waits until you've started eating, before starting on his own. You try not to notice him watching you. The soup settles in your stomach with a warmth that you somehow weren't expecting. How can fake food fill your belly? Your hands start to shake; the spoon chatters against the rim of the bowl with every spasm, and you feel like screaming.

You always feel like screaming.

Vax studies you with slightly narrowed eyes. It's a painfully familiar expression – one he'd fix on you whenever you went too long without speaking – and your heart seizes. When do you get wake up? When does this end? You'll carve the fucking holes in your palms yourself, if that's what it takes. You're halfway out of your chair, lunging towards the knife drawer, when Vax lays his hand on your arm. “What's wrong?” He asks in a low voice, as if he's afraid of sending you spiraling. He is too kind. He should not be this kind.

“None of this is real,” you admit, settling back down and staring at the table. “You should not be this kind.” He sighs, and you jerk your head up to look at him. “I'm sorry,” the words crack in your mouth, “I'm sorry, but I'd like this to stop now. I think I've had enough. If I can go back to the spiders and the –” you hold out your hands to illustrate your point. “I'd like to go back to that, if that's all right.” Vax stares at you for a long moment, and you force a smile to reassure him.

“Percival, do you think you're imagining this? Because,” he tightens his grip on your arm, “this is real. I promise you. We are sitting in your kitchen, eating some soup I found in the back of a cabinet. I am here, with you.” Abruptly, he lets go of you, and pushes out of his chair. 

You watch, almost detached, as he rounds the table and kneels in front of you. “Do you feel this?” He takes your hands in his, gently rubs his thumb over your knuckles. “Tell me – do you feel this?” He asks again, urgently, and you slowly nod – just once – gazing down at your lap. With a shaky sigh, he presses his forehead against your knee. “This is real. How do I convince you? How do I help you?” He mumbles, and you shrug.

“Why didn't you answer me? When I texted you?” You ask suddenly, and he starts, lifting his head to stare up at you with impossibly sad eyes.

“Because you told me you wanted to drink bleach. Anything I had to say to you at that point could be said in person – Percy, I was _terrified_ for you.” He shifts on his knees to sit up straighter, bringing his face closer to yours. “I had no idea what I was going to find when I got here. I just knew I couldn't leave you alone.”

“I thought you were going to kill me.” You observe quietly. “I thought I deserved it.”

“I know,” he traces a gentle circle on the back of your hand with his thumb. “I'm sorry you ever felt that way. I'm here for you now. You're not alone in this.” You nod, though you don't fully believe him, and he reaches up to cup your face in both of his hands. “Darling. You are not alone.” He stares at you, eyes desperate, and you offer him a slightly crooked smile. “This is real. And you are not alone.”

“I am here with you, but you need to stay here with me too, okay? We still have so much we need to do together, so you need to stay with me. This world is beautiful and infuriating and it's all the more so with you in it. Think of all the problems we'll get to solve, the mistakes we'll get to fix, all the fantastic things we'll get to do together – Percival, you have to be here with me, because I don't know if I can do it without you.”

Before you can say anything to contradict him, he surges up to press your mouths together. His eyes are squeezed shut, and you can feel him him shaking. Your hand shudders as you grasp his shoulder, and a sudden heat prickles behind your eyes. Tears slip down your cheeks as he pulls back, and you smile shakily at him.

“I really want this to be real,” you whisper, and he grins shyly back at you.

“It is. I promise,” he murmurs and kisses you again – kisses you like his life depends on it, like your life depends on it, like this is the most important kiss in his entire life, like every moment he has ever lived has been leading up to this second and he's not going to waste it. 

You grasp weakly at his wrists, whimpering in the back of your throat as he quickly nips your bottom lip. His tongue moves over yours in a slick slip slide, and his fingers thread through the strands of your still wet hair. He purrs, obviously pleased with himself, and your face flushes with heat. You can't help your desperation; much as he tries, he can't kiss the unsteadiness from your mind. There is still a part of you that's expecting to wake up on the bathroom floor. You don't know how long this will last, but you want to keep it for as long as you're able. 

Desperate for air, he pulls away with one final peck. You're blushing brightly, and he smiles, rubbing his nose against yours. “Is this okay?” He asks in a hushed voice, and you nod. Feeling suddenly shy and vulnerable, you chew on your lower lip and nervously adjust your glasses. The kisses nudged them askew, and Vax watches you fondly as you settle them back into place.

“You can't kiss me back to normal,” you remark, smiling a little to soften the sting.

“I know, darling.” He gets to his feet and tugs you out of your chair. “I'm not trying to. Not that you've ever been normal.”

Rolling your eyes, you ignore the jibe. “Then what are you trying to do here?”

“Uhm,” he pauses and tilts his head, as if in deep thought. He narrows his eyes, studying some far point just over your left shoulder. “Love you, I think.” Vax admits suddenly, as if the notion just occurred to him. He smiles, a little proud, and shifts his gaze to settle directly on your face. “Sounds about right. I'm trying to love you, if you'll let me.”

“Oh,” you exhale around the sound, mouth falling slightly open. Your blush (which had started to fade) is back in full force; you can feel the heat of it across your nose, and Vax is more than a little proud now. He grins broadly, and you can't help but return the smile. “I think I'll let you, then. If that's what you want.”

“Definitely,” his eyes are wicked as he leads you to the couch in the next room. “That's what I want.” He puts his hands on your shoulders and pushes. You land ungracefully on the couch, but you have little time to recover as he climbs into your lap. “Still okay?” He asks, his knees framing your hips. You nod, and he settles easily on your thighs. From this position, he's a little taller than you, and he uses the height to his greedy advantage. 

He cups your face in his hands, rubbing his thumb over your cheekbone, and you hesitantly take a hold of his hips. His shirt has bunched up, and you can't help but stare at the tantalizing strip of pale skin. This shouldn't be real, and even if it is – even if you actually are on this couch, touching Vax'ildan with your own, unworthy hands – it's not going to be long before you fuck up again. You're genetically predisposed to disaster. The inevitability of failure is written in your DNA.

“I'm scared I'm going to mess this up.” Your voice wavers, and Vax bestows a kiss on your forehead.

“You're not alone in that fear, Percy.” Something cold drips down your spine and make a home out of your belly – something frozen and mean and you can't ignore it. It's not illogical that he doesn't trust you, that he's waiting for you to do something unforgivable and irreversible. You haven't earned his faith yet. It still hurts to hear, though. “I'm worried I'm going to mess this up too.”

“Wait what?” You blink, shaking your head frantically and accidentally dislodging his hands. The chill inside you is swallowed by your immediate confusion. “No, why would you be worried about that? That doesn't make any sense – I'm the fuck up, not you.”

“You're not a fuck up.” His hands are back, gripping your head a little too tightly, as he stares directly into your eyes. “You just need some _help_. Do you understand?” Your noses are practically touching. “This thing between us – I don't want to ruin it. It's important to me,” he admits quietly, a slight blush staining his cheeks. “You're important to me.”

“You're important to me too,” you reassure him with an embarrassed mumble, and he smiles indulgently at you. His eyes close at he presses his forehead against yours, and you slide your hands up his back, unconsciously gripping the fabric of his shirt hard in your fists. “I really don't want to fuck this up.”

“We'll work through it together,” Vax says simply, and drops a quick kiss on your mouth. You tighten your fingers until your knuckles turn white.

“Tell me this is real,” you beg against his lips, and he laughs. You're starting to shake under his touch.

“This is real,” he reassures you and kisses a hot trail across your cheek to suck hard on your neck. With a startled hiss, you drop your head back, granting him better access. He tangles his fingers in your hair and rewards your cooperation with a particularly sharp nip. He has your pulse trapped between his teeth, and your toes curl into the carpet.

“Come back,” you whisper, “I would very much like to kiss you.” He doesn't immediately respond, opting instead to plant his own garden of red, raw splotches on your neck. It is decidedly more pleasant than the flowers that grew on your sweatshirt sleeves, and your breath hitches under his tongue. “Please,” you whisper, as your hand unconsciously creeps under his shirt to trace the knobby notches of his spine.

“You are so polite when you want to be.” He teases you and, before you can retort, rudely sucks your bottom lip into his mouth. Before he can distract you – he's so good at distractions – you use what little leverage you have to topple him sideways and onto his back. Suddenly, he's sprawled beneath you, staring up with a delightfully surprised smile. “Oh _Perciv_ –” He's trying to be obnoxiously coy, and you fit yourself between his spread knees to shut him up.

“Is this okay?” You ask, breathless, as your hips slot together. He laces his fingers together behind your neck, winking with a dangerous tilt in his eyebrows.

“Abso-fucking-lutely,” he tugs you down, your noses almost touching, as he lazily hooks one leg around yours. You brace yourself on one arm, elbow sinking into the couch cushion, and cup his face in your free hand. You take a moment to look at him, and he soaks up your gaze with a sweet, little grin. His dark eyes are sparkling with honest affection, and you can't help yourself – you capture his lips, and he opens beautifully under you.

One of his hands slides into your hair – he's obsessed with it, you're quickly finding out – as your tongue pushes into his mouth. Heat builds under your skin, blistering and _fantastic_ , and everything feels sharp and electric. If you could live in this moment for the rest of your existence, with Vax under you on your faded couch in your ratty apartment, you'd be content. You could die, knowing how it feels to make Vax'ildan sing with desire. Your blood thrums in your veins with a satisfaction you never thought you would ever feel.

“I could die now,” you murmur before sucking a brutal mark onto his clavicle. “I could die now and be happy, I think.”

“Oh Percival,” he keens in an infuriatingly salacious mewl, rolling his hips and nudging your legs apart with his knee. “Wouldn't it be so much more fun to _live_?”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Just so you know, I was sorely tempted to end it with an appearance of spiders of some kind.
> 
> I'm not completely satisfied with how this piece turned out, but it's pretty all right. I wanted Percy to tell Vax about Cassandra, but I couldn't find a way to organically work that conversation in. (Because it needed to be a hefty conversation, and I was already balancing the heaviness of his uncertainty with their physical interactions.) Just pretend that, the next morning, he shares the news of her passing, and they further discuss his emotional troubles.
> 
> Please comment -- share your thoughts, suggestions, et al. (If there's enough interest, maybe I'll write that alternate spider ending -- who knows?)


End file.
